A distant dream
by Sachita
Summary: What is freedom? Is it the flight of a bird, high in the sky? Or is it like a summer's breeze, whispering through trees? Being a Sarmatian knight was equal to a slave's existence. But a cage could have never held an untamed creature like him. So he never stopped escaping his bonds to search for that one distant dream : Tristan's tale, from the beginning to the end. (Tristan/Isolde)
1. How to be free

**I: How to be free**

The wind tasted different in every country they passed on their long journey to their new post, Britain. He had never been to any other country than Sarmatia; yet he knew the difference when he tasted the scent of the air. The Roman _legionarii_ had not told them much about the countries they passed through, but Tristan's eyes had drunk it all in, every detail that told him that it was a foreign country – the scent, the garb of the people, the harsh sounds of their language, incomprehensible to his ears. Some of the cities they passed through were majestic. He had never seen buildings that grand. Some of the infrastructure he admired – they used water pipes to heat their floor in the winter, he had heard. Yes, he couldn't help but admire that, as much as he despised them.

The scent and the sounds of home however he held deep in his heart, treasured, where no one would be able to find them. "They can take everything away from you," his father had warned. "Everything but one thing." Tristan had looked up questioningly. "There is your heart, son. Steady, beating. They can't take the treasures of your mind. Remember the sound of your horse's beating hooves in these plains, son. And remember how the wind smells. They can't take that away from you."

So Tristan remembered and he treasured it: the quiet, melodic sound of his mother's voice, the warm touch of his father's hand and the murmuring of the wind over the plains. He knew he would not forget as long as he lived.

The other boys he travelled with liked to complain and to argue amongst themselves, yet Tristan rarely spoke. He saw no need for it, really. There was not much to be said. He rather liked to observe – there was so much sound in the quiet, could they not hear? He marveled about their apparent inability to be silent in the beginning. There was so much song in the wordless silence – the way, the grass rippled in the breeze, the way, a horse neighed, the way a lark sang, high high in the air. Why was there any need to spoil that quiet? Tristan's tribe had been a quiet people, often not saying a word for hours. They did not like to speak during the day, just going about their chores. In the evenings they had sometimes gathered around a fire and had sung. Their songs had embraced the emptiness of the plains they lived on, had heralded the cold stars and the quiet all around them. It was a song of solitude so profound it seemed endless. He held that song of the quiet in his heart. Like his father said, he knew they could never take that away from him.

"Do you not speak?"

It was the voice of a boy with curls. He liked to aggravate others, mostly the Roman officers. Tristan thought he was a bit too obstreperous and he liked to take his distance of him, Lancelot, as he was called.

"If I see the need I can speak."

Tristan's voice was scratchy due to disuse. They spoke different dialects, Lancelot and him, and it was difficult to communicate, sometimes. However, Tristan's statement was clear enough. Nonetheless the boy went on.

"You rarely do see the need then."

"Yes."

Lancelot fell silent, obviously taken aback at so much bluntness. As he moved his horse away Tristan noticed the other boys all looking at him in wonder. He did not really understand why.

Tristan spent the following weeks in a monotonous manner. He was with himself most of the time yet he did not mind. His eyes followed the outline of the trees, wondering about the difference in trees – he had never seen many in Sarmatia – admiring colourful birds, watching people. There was a part of him wondering why he did not seem to be as depressed as all of the other boys and that part of him wondered whether they did after all have cause to look at him askance. Yes, he did miss home. But he carried it in his heart and they could not take that away from him. He was a curious soul, always had been. A part of him was amazed at all the different things he got to see on this journey. And of course, like the other boys, he did not like the way the Romans treated them and he did not like the way they watched them – as if they were less than they themselves. "Auxiliary troops," they liked to call them. He was just not so vocal about his dislike like, for example, Lancelot.

Tristan had learned that there were many different auxiliary troops, from many different regions. Some of the Roman _legionarii_ , who travelled with them were auxiliary troops. Some others were Roman citizens by birth. In total, they were about 30 men, led by a _decurion_ called Quintus Aelius Priscus. Tristan had surmised, that 30 men were already a big unit, but they had laughed at him, telling him that they were only a part of a legion, which consisted of almost 6000 men. That had come as something of a shock. Tristan marveled at the size of the Roman Empire. No one had ever thought to tell him that it was all so vast – and he had thought Sarmatia was a vast country. The Romans also taught them Latin. Tristan picked up the language easily enough. Some of the other boys sneered at him for that. He ignored them and merely shot them an aloof look whenever they picked on him for being able to speak the language of their slave-drivers so well.

One day they stopped in a garrison situated in the middle of a grassy clearing. They were greeted by a _centurio_ on watch, who shouted out a greeting. Quintus greeted him back respectfully. They had passed through a dense forest with barely any light before arriving there and since it had been a long way they were all exhausted.

The _centurio_ stood conversing with Quintus, then he abruptly turned to the Sarmatian boys. He did not introduce himself. He merely stood in front of them and looked them up and down. Cheerless grey eyes searched them. He seemed to be a stern man without much humour, yet Tristan sensed that he was a very capable officer.

"You are now part of the auxiliary troops of this Empire, boys," he said curtly. "See this as an honour. If you do well, you have the chance to rise through the ranks."

The boys were silent, defiant. They all thought that none of them had asked to be here, yet none of them dared to open their mouth. Tristan however, looked steadily at him. He saw no reason to look away. He would never look away from another's challenge, he thought grimly.

The Roman _centurio_ did come over then, seeing Tristan's look. "You seem like you wish to defy me," he said in his clear Latin.

"I do not," Tristan struggled with the words, "wish to defy you. I merely don't wish to look away."

"Why?" the _centurio_ asked, looking genuinely intrigued.

"Because I wish it," he paused, trying to put forth the difficult Latin syllables," I do as I wish."

The _centurio_ paused, his cold eyes glittering. "Do you think you are a free man, boy?"

"I have always been free," Tristan said matter-of-factly.

There was cold anger now in the voice of the other as he replied: "You are to serve this Empire now, boy. You mustn't do as you wish. Never disobey a command. Now I command you to look down."

Tristan stared at him. "I will not."

The _centurio_ 's cold look changed to something near respect. He nodded shortly. "Very well." He turned to Quintus, who nodded shortly. "Have him flogged."

There was a lot of pain after that and Tristan's recollection of it got quite hazy. He came to, really, when he was lying on a soft cloth on his stomach and a gentle hand put herbs on his back. He hissed.

"That was not an intelligent thing to say," a voice commented and Tristan recognised the voice quickly. It belonged to Dagonet, an older boy travelling with their group. He was a rather quiet one also and Tristan saw in him a bit of a kindred spirit.

"Yet it was the honest thing to do," he said quietly and twitched in pain when Dagonet touched the wounds on his back once more. "But is it always the intelligent way to be honest?" Tristan shrugged, not wanting the other boy to see how conflicted he was. Dagonet smiled. "You impressed him, that Roman."

Tristan said nothing to that. "Where did you learn how to be a healer?" Dagonet wrapped some linen around Tristan's torso. "My father taught me," he said slowly. "And the Romans gave me some of their healing supplies. There is one of them, Antonius, whom I am learning from also. They are not all bad people, you know."

"I don't know," Tristan whispered thickly and that was the only admission of weakness he would show. Dagonet knew as much, he could sense that. He felt a warm hand squeezing his shoulder. "You are allowed to stay here in the healing room for today, Tristan. Tomorrow we journey on," he said in his rough Alani dialect. "Get some sleep." With that he got up and left.

There is no comfort here, Tristan thought and the thought suddenly hurt more than it normally would have. There was no way to calm the raging beast inside of him, that now clawed its way through: how could he preserve the song of the quiet in his heart? How was he to keep that part of himself when they wanted to strip him bare? They would try to break him again and again, he knew that. There was no way he could fit in. That realisation choked him up. The officer had implied that he was somehow now on a lower rung of existence, he was the one who had to obey. He was suddenly reminded of the slaves the royal family of their clan owned, who had been taken from farmers' villages in the woods next to the wide Sarmatian plains. Did they feel like this? Sure, they did not have a bad life – they were treated decently enough and given enough to eat, but they could not go away. Was he like them now? Was he now a slave, not a free man?

And finally it was this thought that made his throat go tight, not the thought that they were now separated from their families. He had known it would be like that.

But no one had thought to tell him that he would now be a slave for the next fifteen years.

* * *

 _Hello to you! I haven't written anything in ages, but Tristan wouldn't let this go - so I would really love to know what you think of this so far!_

 _A_ _ **decurion**_ _led a cavalry unit consisting of 30 men. In a legion of almost 6000 men, there were only four cavalry units, so about 120 men. The other units were all infantry units._


	2. A realisation

**II: A realisation**

Watching the nature no longer held any sway over him, as he faced the grim realisation: he was a slave. Why had his father not told him so? Had he feared that Tristan might not be able to face it? It was true, he was not able to face it. Riding still hurt. His back was tender. Quintus, their _decurion_ , had not said another word to his punishment save for: "You deserved it, boy. Obedience is a must."

There was a kind of deep anger within him, but there was no way to release it. At night he would lie still, staring in the darkness with all the force of his despair that now engulfed him whole. He had never been one to show his emotions in the light though, and so he kept a blank mask during the day. He would not talk to anyone save for the most necessary words. His thoughts kept going in circles. He was free, he was a free man, he had always been a free man, and no Roman was going to change that. The desire to be his own master was stronger than any other desire, even at the age of fourteen summers.

Weeks passed and they took shelter in a small city called _Flavia Solva_. The city seemed to consist largely of ruins or of disused houses. The houses they stayed in seemed to be some of the only houses still left intact and running. Tristan did not seem to be the only one who had noticed this. Lancelot, ever outspoken, went to talk to the landlord.

"Please tell me," he said in his broken Latin, "why is city empty? No people anywhere."

The landlord raised an eyebrow at the bad Latin, but he answered nonetheless. "This city was left by its inhabitants, boy. Barbarians are roaming free these days. No one wants to stay here, at the edges of the civilized world." He looked Lancelot up and down. "Not that I have to tell you about barbarians…"

Quintus, who had been sitting with his _optio_ , Flavius, at the fireplace, had heard this. He got up and stood before the landlord. His dark eyes were shooting daggers. "Do not forget your position, landlord," he said. "You are grumbling about _publicum hospitium_ , are you? Well, better not let me hear any whisper from you again. These boys will attain _civitas_ one day, if they prove themselves. Standing in front of you is the future of this Empire. And I know there is been unrest these last years, but I can assure you the Senate will do all in its power to reclaim these regions. So you better be silent now."

The landlord backed away, raising his hands in a universal gesture of defeat and went to work on cleaning some tables.

Lancelot looked at Quintus, who looked back for a minute, then shook his head and turned back to Flavius. Tristan had followed the exchange silently. He had gathered a few things from the conversation – first, the Roman Empire seemed to be crumbling. Second, they apparently had the chance to become civitas one day, whatever that meant. He was more interested in the first statement. If there were really barbarian hordes overrunning the Empire, did that mean he could escape and return to his family unscathed soon?

Later, he could haven't said how he could have been so careless in his thoughts and actions. He had packed his two small daggers – the Romans had taken away all their weapons, or so they _thought_ , so he didn't have his father's curved sword – the loaf of bread he had stolen from the kitchen and the few _nummi_ , small copper coins, they had received from the officers for buying small meals from hawkers.

Quintus sometimes taught them a few things about the Empire; its regions and its people. Tristan always listened avidly. Thus, he knew they were in _Norricum mediterraneum_ , just below the range of the _Alpes_ , the gigantic range of mountains dividing this mass of land. They had seen them rising up on the horizon, eliciting sounds of awe- only some of them had known of mountains that gigantic before. He had the route they had travelled to come here clearly in his head, he knew he would not get lost. In his head he had always, even as a small child, categorized routes and landmarks. His father had used to boast about his son never getting lost and even finding the way to their tents in the middle of the night when they had been half a day-ride away. Thus, Tristan knew well where to go. He had even thought of the sentries posted outside and so he climbed across the roof and across to the other side of the house, where there were no openings to the outside. His fingers got bloody rashes when he climbed down along the rough stones, but he did not care. Instead he felt happy when he finally ran away in the darkness. He had really thought of everything. However, he had not thought of Quintus going outside for a check of the situation.

He was halfway through the ruins of the old city, ghostly in the pale moonlight, when he suddenly felt the cold steel of a _Gladius_ , the common sword of the Roman army, at his throat. The dark figure of Quintus was outlined against the night sky.

"Don't go any farther, boy."

Tristan froze, but he made no sound. Instead he felt how the blade wandered even closer to his neck, cutting some of the soft flesh. It hurt. He was deadly afraid in that moment.

"You know what we do to deserters."

That had been the first lesson the Romans had taught them: even Roman citizens, who deserted, were beaten to death with cudgels in front of the entire troop. Yes, Tristan knew indeed what they did with deserters. He could only imagine what they did with deserters who were no Roman citizens.

"Did you really think you were going to flee all the way back to Sarmatia across half the Empire without detection?"

Tristan breathed loudly, he could not help it. The steel was still at his throat.

"How do you even think you would be able to pull that off?"

That had now sounded as if Quintus thought he was stupid and a small flame of indignation wormed its way through. Thus, Tristan spoke.

"I listened to Flavius, the landlord."

Quintus laughed horribly at that. "Flavius!" he exclaimed. "Why in god's name would you listen to that imbecile? He knows nothing of the world and he is a bad example of Roman citizens. He does not even want hard-working _legionarii_ to stay with him, he only has to take us in on a regular basis due to the rules of _publicum hospitium_. He has as much honour as a common street dog. You are an intelligent boy, why would you rely on anything he says?"

Tristan protested. "He said the Roman Empire is crumbling…"  
Again, Quintus laughed, but it was a sad sound. The steel blade had left Tristan's throat by then. Tristan dared to raise a hand to rub his throat.

"The Roman Empire might be weakened by hordes coming from the east, but we still prevail. Roman institutions are still strong and deserters are punished more harshly than ever. Rest assured you would never make it home alive. We would hunt you down like a rabid dog."

"The deserters are punished more harshly because you lose influence," Tristan surmised.

"No," Quintus replied quickly, but Tristan caught the sliver of truth reverberating in his voice. "They are punished because discipline is the most important thing in an army."

"Why have you not killed me then by now?" Tristan challenged. He knew it was stupid, but he thought that the end was coming anyway.

Quintus shook his head, a gesture barely visible in the moonlight. "You are an intelligent one, boy. With time you will come to realise that not all about the Roman Empire is a bad thing. My father came from _Gallia_ and was drafted as well, to reach a certain quota needed during the time. He did not want to go, but he had to. And as it turned out, in the end he was awarded some land for his service and he became a citizen of Rome, which is why I stand in front of you today. I would like you to have the same chances as I was once offered. You can do so much as a Roman citizen. You can learn how to build majestic structures, read about the philosophers or sharpen your mind in a thousand other directions." There was an awe in his voice which Tristan could not understand.

Finally, shrugging, the Roman said. "It is up to you." Tristan walked after him, slowly, defeated. When they reached the entrance of the inn, though, the steel of the commander's _Gladius_ was once more at Tristan's throat. "Next time you run I will kill you."

Then he pushed the boy inside, watching how he disappeared quickly upstairs. At the top of the stairs the boy turned, looking back at him. Quintus didn't break the gaze, and after a while, the wild boy nodded, turning to go. Strangely the Roman _legionarius_ didn't feel like he had attained a victory.

"I will watch you," he mumbled to himself. "Rest assured, the next time you are dead."

Tristan meanwhile had only made it a few steps farther. Then a dark shape hurled itself at him and pushed him to the ground. Punches were flying his way, dealt by a strong fist, but Tristan fought back fiercely, biting and scratching.  
"You idiot!" he heard. It was Lancelot's voice.

"Stop it!" Tristan yelled, his young voice ringing out clearly. Lancelot pressed a hand to his mouth. "Silent now," he hissed. "Or do you want more trouble?" Little did they know that the Roman legionnarii had already taken notice of the scuffle, but Quintus had forbidden them to intervene. Long practice had taught them that the young recruits were to be left alone in moments such as these.

As a response Tristan launched himself at him once more, trying to break Lancelot's hold over him. Lancelot landed a hit to his stomach and Tristan bit back a pained yell. Instead he hit back, so hard, that Lancelot fell on the ground next to him. They lay next to each other, heavily panting, both covered in bloody scratches and bruises.

"Why did you try to run, you idiot?" Lancelot asked scathingly and there was so much fury in his voice.

Tristan paused and suddenly understood. "You wanted to do that as well. Running."

"Yes," Lancelot said tartly. "Not only me, some of the others as well. Do you realise you have now ruined all our chances? They will keep an closer eye on us than before. Why do you never speak to any of us? You would have known otherwise."

Tristan said nothing, but he felt a slight stirring of guilt. He was not speaking much to the other boys, that was true, but that did not mean that he was completely indifferent to them. They were of his people, after all, and petty things like tribal rivalry meant only very little now that they were all together in enemy territory. "We would have never made it," he said and Lancelot would only get this as apology. However, that did not seem to be enough for the other boy.

"We would have made it," he said bitingly. "The landlord said-"

"I know," Tristan interrupted. Then he told Lancelot all that Quintus had told him. Lancelot was silent for a long time after that. Then he finally said in a broken voice: "Are you sure he is not lying to you?"

"I am sure," Tristan replied quietly and steadily. Again Lancelot was silent.

When he spoke again, he sounded earnest. "I don't want you to be killed. I might not like you, but I would not want that for any of us."

Tristan nodded solemnly, though he knew Lancelot could not see it in the darkness. "I don't want you to be killed either. We will have to work together."

Lancelot suddenly gripped his hand in the darkness and Tristan let him, though he did not like the contact very much. "Let's try that, then."

"Yes," Tristan said and Lancelot released his hand.

"I want to go home," he said and it was the most earnest thing Tristan had ever heard him say.

"I don't think we will ever be able to go home," he whispered back sadly in a rare show of openness.

It was a grim realisation and they both stayed there on the floor silent, for a long time.

* * *

 _Thank you very much for the reviews,_ _ **BabSberry**_ _and_ _ **Josje!**_ _Looking forward to hearing all your opinions on this chapter, all of my dear readers! Best, Sachita :)_

 _Annotations:_ _ **Publicum hospitium**_ _first and foremost meant the lodging of high guests by usually the patron of a city. It also came to mean, however, the (involuntary) lodging of troops by private persons or landlords, which was enforced by the state._

 ** _Civitas_** _means the citizenship of the Roman Empire. A Roman citizen had much more rights than an ordinary person. Auxiliary troops could attain citizenships after a fixed amount of years of service._ _ _In fact, in the beginning days of the Empire most auxiliary troops consisted of volunteers exactly for that reason. Citizenship was something to be desired. It was only in the later days of the Empire, when it was all crumbling, that some__ _ _were drafted against their will.__

 _An **optio** is in fact the second-in-command of a **centurio**. The **centurio** leads an infantry unit of 80 men. However, our Quintus in our story is a **decurion** , meaning he commands a cavalry unit of about 30 men, which would be an acceptable size for keeping 40 wild recruits in check. Since I am not sure what the second-in-command of a **decurion** is called, I just stuck to calling him **optio** as well – bear with me :) _


	3. The passage through the Alpes

**III: The passage through the Alpes**

It was nearing the end of summer and Quintus cursed to himself heartily, because he knew that crossing the Alpes would be nigh impossible in approximately two to three weeks. They had lost time doing some obligatory paperwork, filling out forms when passing the inner reaches of the Roman Empire. Plus there had been a mudslide on their way, forcing them to take a long detour through rocky terrain, which, along with continuous rain, had served to dampen their spirits considerably.

"I wish we could have turned south instead," Flavius Iulius Marcus, his o _ptio_ mumbled, standing next to Quintus.

"Yes," Quintus said heavily, eyeing the snowy tops of the mountains glaring at them from the distance, "so do I."

He turned around, looking at the boys. They all looked back at him indifferently, but Quintus could see in their gaunt faces that the long journey had already taken its toll on them. But he had no choice; his orders were unmistakable and if they rested any longer, chances were that the first snow would come upon them even sooner.

His look met the silent stare of young Tristan. The boy had not said anything else to him after his failed escape attempt, but Quintus had not failed to note the quiet defiance that was constantly in his eyes. The boy was different, somehow. All the other boys seemed to be homesick and tired, but Tristan's spirit was strong and enduring. The boy would need it.

Turning back to the snowy expanse in front of him, he sighed. "Let's go then."

Tristan marvelled. He was careful not to show it too much on his face lest any of his companions picked up on it, but he marvelled. The mountains seemed to reach to the skies, or no, even higher! They were such huge, rocky expanses of silence and of snow that Tristan felt very small indeed. He tried to reach up with his hands once, trying in a childish mood flare to reach up, attempting to gauge the height of the mountain next to him. His horse whinnied in impatience, wondering what her rider was up to.

"This seems silly," Lancelot commented snidely next to him. Tristan shot him a non-plussed sideways look. Ever since their agreement in the inn Lancelot had taken to ride next to him. Why, Tristan could not fathom. He had never had many friends in their tribe and he had always been rather unsure of how to handle social relationships. Why, he did not know. His parents were rather sociable and had a lot of friends. He supposed it was nothing he could easily change and thus he did not think much of it. Lancelot seemed to consider him a friend now, though, and he did not seem to need much incentive from Tristan.

Oh well.

He instead concentrated on the mountains once more. Such beauty…such cold majesty. What was it like, being one of those silent giants, always, ever alone with the sounds of the wind and the birds? Alone up there in the windswept heights, a kingly gaze sweeping on the ground where the small, insignificant humans dwelled? Forever lost in icy winds and the contemplation of the vastness around? To anyone else this description might have sounded cold, lonely even. To Tristan it sounded heavenly.

"I would very much like to be a mountain instead of a man," he said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Lancelot chortled. "What? A mountain? Are you out of your mind?"

Tristan ignored him.

"Why?" Lancelot then asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Why would you care for that?" Tristan asked him.

"Why not?" Lancelot asked back, insufferably.

"I imagine it peaceful," Tristan finally answered quietly. "More peaceful than anything else than will await us."

"How would you know what awaits us?" That was the voice of Galahad, loud and impulsive boy that he was. Being the youngest, he often cried at night for his mother and at day would leave out nothing to provoke the Romans and, on occasions, also his fellow Sarmatians. He had once told Quintus that he considered him as good as a slave driver. Quintus had very patiently explained him the difference between a slave driver and himself and Tristan had marvelled at his patience with the boy. Tristan himself did not care much for so much loudness. He fixed the boy with a stare, hoping he would simply give up on asking. No such luck.

Finally he sighed: "My father told me what awaits us. We will be trained on how to kill men."

Those words, spoken out loud, seemed to instil a heavy terror in Galahad, visible at the naked panic in his eyes.

"You should not be so direct," Gawain, who somehow seemed to be particularly protective of young Galahad, admonished and put a hand on Galahad's shoulder.

"Why not?" Tristan asked. "It is only the truth. Should not all men know the truth?"

Gawain glared at him and Tristan let his horse fall back to join Lancelot once more. Lancelot seemed more amused than anything else at the little exchange, but he did not comment.

They made their way along the mountain pass of _Monte Crucis_ , as Quintus explained to them. "This path is called _Via Iulia Augusta_ ," he told them one evening, pride clear in his voice, motioning to the stone street stretching out endlessly behind and in front of them. Tristan could not help but marvel yet again. Yes, the Romans were slave drivers, Galahad had been correct in his assessment. Yet they had to have many more traits in order to have built a huge Empire such as this with streets such as that one. There were no streets in Sarmatia; you did not need them in the steppes. But even if they had streets, Tristan doubted they would be as perfect as this one. His people had neither the experience nor patience.

"Who made this street?" Lancelot asked, something other than apathy in his voice when talking to the Roman legionarii for the first time since they had left Sarmatia.

"Men made this street," Quintus said, and there was still a lot of pride in his voice. "The best Roman architects and thousands of workers worked here."

Some of the boys scoffed, but none of them could really hide their awe. Tristan looked down as the gaze of Quintus searched his. He did not want the Roman to see that he too admired the Roman infrastructure.

They stayed at a small inn along the way that day. There was not much space and many people stayed there with them – a group of traders: people with weathered faces and a knowing look in their eyes as they watched the bedraggled group of Sarmatian boys. The traders gathered around the fire and the boys lay down on the wooden ground on the other side of the room, trying to make themselves comfortable with the little they had. Quintus came down to check on them. The _Legionarii_ shared two rooms on the first floor. Quintus, as a _decurion_ , had a small room of his own.

"There is trouble ahead," one of the traders, with long hair and a hoarse voice said suddenly to Quintus.

"I did not ask you," Quintus replied rather firmly.

"Oh, but I am offering," the trader said, yellow teeth showing. "Poor little slave boys. There is a storm brewing ahead. It will be there by the morrow of the day after the next. I can sense storms. My bones tell me so and I have crossed the Alpes many a day."

Quintus stared at him shortly, then shook his head and turned to the boys. "Get some sleep," he said sternly. "You will need the rest in the next days."

Tristan saw the wisdom in his words and he curled up in his woollen blanket, a gift by his mother.

"Do you think he can foretell storms?" Lancelot again. Why the troublesome boy always sought out him was still a mystery to Tristan.

"I do not know," he replied and closed his eyes again. "But it is possible."  
Lancelot, for once, was silent and Tristan was glad for the respite.

The next day had them climbing higher and higher up the mountain passes, until Tristan was sure he could have reached the clouds with his bare hands. Even the louder boys quieted down in face of all the wonder around them. White wisps of snow were caught in the treetops and feather-like clouds floated silently through the blue sky. A ray of sunshine broke through and made the fine sheen of snow that covered the ground glitter in a thousand different colours. Right beside the way was a steep drop that seemed to go on endlessly. Firs grew all the way down the mountain, looking from above like an assortment of spears. They shortly stopped on a high mountain ledge. From there they could look down into a narrow valley. The mountain ranges opposite seemed close enough to touch, but Tristan had learned that they were simply that gigantic, they would look close even from far away. He had noticed that the mountains seemed to become blue shades in the distance; even though they were mainly green and grey from close up.

Quintus stopped next to him. "What are you looking at?" he asked the boy.

Tristan mentioned the phenomenon of the blue mountains and Quintus smiled. He was becoming fond of the obstinate, quiet boy, who was so observant. An interesting boy he was indeed.

"The people who live here in these outskirts call the area here `blue country´. Now you know why. The mountains farther away look as if they are blue, though I do not know why that is so."

Tristan did not answer, he stared transfixed at the mountains. He learned something new on that journey every day.

"Why do you look so content?" Galahad queried bitterly a few hours of riding later. "We are being taken from home against our will. What is there to be content about?"

Tristan found no words to explain that he marvelled at the beauty of nature around them. He gave the boy a silent stare instead and shook his head. Surprisingly it was Lancelot, who answered.

"Maybe you should try to see the few good things on this journey also, rather than always focussing on the negative. I rather think Tristan's outlook on things makes more sense than yours."

Galahad ignored them after that but Tristan found he did not care much.

On the next day Quintus was riding ahead next to Flavius, stopping beneath an overhanging ledge to wait for them, when suddenly all hell broke loose. A storm had been engulfing them with winds and snowy rain for the last hour or so, but suddenly lightning struck and thunder rolled around them.

Tristan could later only surmise that it had been the bolt of lightning which had caused the debris avalanche that came roaring down the mountain, but in that moment all erupted into chaos. Loud roaring was all he could hear for a long minute and he could not even see Lancelot beside him due to the white dust building up in the air. His eyes were ringing, when it finally stopped, but miraculously he was not hurt in any way. When the dust cleared a little he could finally look for the others. As far as he could see the debris avalanche had come down just in front of them, not behind them and Lancelot and him had been the first ones to ride after Quintus…Quintus! It occurred to him suddenly. The decurion had been riding at the front. Tristan could see that the legionarii were mostly unhurt, but there was no sign of their commander. They were all looking around frantically, pointing, but Tristan's sharp eyes found immediately, where he should be searching.

Not waiting for assistance, he slipped quickly down from his horse and ran through the rocks now covering the street. He could see Quintus' horse through the dust. It had been hit by a large rock. Its body was smashed and it was lying close to the side of the street. Flavius' horse was next to it, but it was already struggling to stand up. The optio was lying next to his horse and he was just beginning to stir. Tristan coughed and picked his way over to the horses. There was no sign of Quintus. Unless…He walked closer to the ledge and looked down – there was Quintus, hanging on to the branches of a dead fir, just below the ledge. He was covered in blood and dust and looked as if he was hanging on with all his might.

"Give me your hand," Tristan shouted. Quintus looked up, amazement in his eyes. Then his look darkened. "You are too weak to pull me up," he shouted back.

"Give me your hand," Tristan repeated forcefully.

Quintus looked doubtful, but suddenly the branch he was hanging onto started to break and he thought better of it. Tristan took the proffered hand and pulled with all his might, pulling with both of his arms. He felt something tear in his arm, yet he still held on. Vaguely, he was aware of someone holding him from behind, helping him, and with their joint effort they were finally able to pull Quintus up. Looking to his side, he realised that a _legionarius_ had come to his aid.

Tristan saw dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. He trembled, trying to suck as much air in as possible.

Quintus was lying just besides him, staring at him with something like incredulity in his eyes. "Why would you save me?" he rasped out.

"Because you are a just man," Tristan said simply. For him it did need no other explanation.

That night they rested in a grassy clearing. The Roman physician had put up a tent for Quintus and he looked grim, when he came out of the tent. He did not say a word. Everyone's spirits were low and no one spoke much. Thankfully it had stopped raining and they at least had the chance to dry their clothes by the fire.

Tristan looked silently into the burning embers and wondered. He did not want this Roman to die and it was a strange thing for him. Such a strange thing since Rome was his enemy.

Again, he wondered.

* * *

 _Thank you for your continuous support,_ _ **BabSberry**_ _and_ _ **Josje!**_ _Please let me know what you think of this chapter, everyone! Best, Sachita :)_


	4. The gods of death

**IV: The gods of death**

Harsh coughs came from Quintus' tent in the night, speaking of his agony. Tristan could feel death hanging over him. He had known death intimately for years: Life was harsh in the Sarmatian prairie. He had had his first meeting with death as a young boy. There had been the eyes of a playmate, of a boy, who had just broken his neck falling from his horse staring back at him - broken grey orbs, shining with the knowledge of their death like stones gleaming wetly after a long rainshower. The mother of the boy had wailed, tearing out her hair. They had buried him with enough food and wine as well as a small wolf figurine made out of bronze. "The gods will claim him," Tristan's mother had whispered into his hair, holding onto him tightly. "They always claim us. There is need to fear the gods of death."

It were her words that stuck to him now, as he stared into the dancing flames of their camp fire that greedily devoured their firewood. He had volunteered for the night watch, together with three Legionarii. One sat opposite of him, saying nothing. He seemed forlorn.

The others were standing at the edges of the clearing they had made camp on, staring into the night. Tristan meanwhile kept staring into the burning embers. The sound of a fire singing in the night had always been a source of comfort to him. His people believed deeply in the god of fire, and as such, the fire sang words of comfort to him as a mother might do.

A man joined him at the fire. It was Flavius, Quintus' second-in-command. He first said nothing and instead joined Tristan in staring at the dancing flames. "What comfort do the flames bring you?," he enquired then bitterly, clearly showing Tristan that Quintus' condition was detoriating. Flavius was a silent man, a lot less inclined to joke and laughter than Quintus was, but on that night his humour seemed especially sour.

"The gods speak to me," Tristan said matter-of-factly.

Flavius looked at him tiredly. "What do they speak of, boy?"

"They speak of death."

In a gesture of rare despair, Flavius lowered his head to his knees. "Fifteen years I have known him and loved him like my brother."

Tristan was silent. "I was told that the gods of death do love as well," he said quietly.

Flavius stared at him for a long minute and then got up, disappearing in the tent once more. He came out no five minutes later.

"He wishes to speak to you," he said shortly.

Tristan rose, leaving Flavius to take his place and opened the flaps of the tent silently.

Quintus was lying on his bedroll and was covered with blankets. Next to him, an oil lamp flickered through the night. He was breathing shallowly.

His face was starkly pale and yet sweat drops had gathered at his temples.

When Tristan stood next to him, unsure, Quintus opened his dark eyes.

"Tristan," he smiled weakly. "Sit."

Tristan sat carefully down and kept his face blank.

"I have thought about you. You are very perceptive. I'd like you to train with Silvanus. He is our best scout and I believe that being a scout will benefit you."

A scout...Tristan thought. Being a scout meant to regain some freedom in movement, at least. He felt excitement rush through his veins.

"I shall train with him as you command," he replied curtly.

"Excellent," Quintus commented and he smiled.

Speaking seemed to be difficult for him and he had once more closed his eyes. Tristan, taking that as a dismissal, got up and wanted to leave.

"Tristan," Quintus' weak voice called him back. "Do Sarmatians venerate the dead?"

Tristan paused. "We honour them," he replied quietly. "If it is in our might, we put the finest silver and gold in their graves, so they will lead a good, honoured life among the dead." Quintus opened his eyes and looked at him silently.

"In Rome," he said carefully, slowly, "we also honour the dead. We believe the grain to be a symbol for life and death: In winter, it is sleeping in the ground and only in summer it lives. We celebrate the dead." He paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Pluto is waiting for me," he said painfully. "Only a merciful god could save me now."

Tristan looked at him. Quietly, he said: "I shall pray to my gods for your recovery."

Quintus was very still. "You are a fine boy, Tristan," he said quietly. "For saving me I thank you. Only the best of men prevail and I can see that you will, too."

Tristan inclined his head. He said nothing to the praise, but Quintus noticed that it made him uncomfortable. Painfully, he continued. "We can't wait here any longer on my behalf."

The dark boy nodded soberly. "I can smell snow on the winds." A shiver ran down the Roman decurio's spine. "Then we need to leave tomorrow," he spoke gravely. "Send Flavius to me."

Tristan obeyed, went outside, and relayed the message to Flavius.

* * *

Flavius entered the tent no minute later, his red cape slung tightly around his chest. "It's cold outside," he smiled, but it was a weak smile.

"How are you feeling?" The decurion smiled back. His lips were blood-stained and as he coughed, more blood smeared his lips. "Like a waggon ran me over."

Flavius looked at him in uneasy silence. "The blood on your lips-" Quintus laughed faintly. "Don't worry. I bit my tongue, fool that I am. However, I seem to have broken some ribs. Breathing is difficult, but the medic said he will try and stabilise my chest later."

He inhaled painfully. "We need to leave tomorrow. Get the men and the boys ready."

Flavius protested. "But you would not survive!" Tired, Quintus closed his eyes. Quietly, he rasped: "Only Pluto can decide my fate now. I shall come with you. Tie me to the packhorse.

If the gods will it, then I shall prevail." Technically, Christianity was now the official religion of the Empire, but a lot of the legionarii still held tightly onto what their families had believed in for centuries. And they were far enough from Rome as not to fear any repercussions for it.

Flavius finally recognised the reason behind Quintus' words. He nodded, unhappily.

"But I would like to ask you to ride with me, decurio," he said carefully.

Quintus protested against adding an extra burden to Flavius' horse, but Flavius would have none of it. "At least for the first day, decurio" he pleaded. "I can't condone tying you to the packhorse in your condition. If you ride with me, I can at least make sure that you do not have to suffer the harsher bumps of the road."

Quintus was too tired to protest. "Alright," he mumbled. "Thank you, Flavius." He was then silent for a while. "When I die," he whispered, "I want you to bury me with a grain ear. I do not want to be buried in the modern way of the Christian god. The old gods have always spoken stronger to me. Don't forget Charon's obol, my friend." The last part had Flavius nearly weeping. He choked on his words, as he spoke. "The ferryman will receive you with honour, brother."

"Good." Quintus smiled and then closed his eyes. Flavius inhaled heavily and tried sorrowfully to regain his composure, then went outside to make his preparations. He'd be damned if he let his decurio die. Fifteen years had tied them together as if they were brothers.

* * *

The next day, they were on their way already early in the morning. Quintus rode with Flavius. Most of the time he hung, half-conscious, in the Optio's strong grip.

Morale was low and the legionarii rode taut and alert. Suspicion was edged more deeply on their faces as they looked at the boys.

"It's not our fault the decurio is dying," Galahad snapped in Sarmatian. "If they had never come to force us away from home, none of this would have happened."

Tristan found himself remaining silent, as did the other boys. The sky was obstructed with grey clouds and again he felt like he could smell the snow on those greyish expanses of heaven.

Sometime in the early afternoon, the scout of the troop rode up to him. Tristan did not know much about him, only that he was called Silvanus and he had dark skin to the likes that Tristan had never seen it before.

"I am Silvanus," he introduced himself tartly. "The decurion ordered you two to ride ahead with me. I am to teach you how to observe and how to scout." There was another boy at his side that Tristan knew only under the name of Parzifal. Also, a second Roman legionary accompanied Silvanus. That one had a flat, dead stare that made Tristan want to look away, yet he held his look. Something told him that it was important. Then, with a smile that Tristan could only describe as feral, the other looked away. He did not introduce himself and Tristan did not know his name, but he had a feeling that right now it was not too important. Something told him that this man had higher expectations for them than Silvanus, who seemed to be infinitely more open.

The other boys looked on as they rode off, some looking envious. Tristan could not help but feel some kind of relief as they increased the distance to the troop. There was a part of him that rejoiced in being able to leave behind the depressed silence hanging over their riding company.

Parzifal, who apparently had an inquisitive tongue, asked of the Roman legionarii: "Why do you even feel the need to scout ahead? I thought we are in friendly territory."

They exchanged a look. "It is nothing we need to speak of to you," Silvanus finally said sternly. "Only know that there can always be danger ahead on the road and a man who trusts in peace will be betrayed first."

Tristan could not help but agree with that assessment. Life in the praerie had always been dominated by fear of the Scythians, their neighbouring tribes and one of their greatest foes. It was said that they liked to capture men alive and then take their scalps to hang them to their belts. He wondered as to whether the Sycthians were not more deserving of the title "barbarians", that the Romans liked to adorn them with.

Tristan had always thought of Sarmatian culture as sophisticated. They were a people, who tried to live in the pace of nature. They were hunters and nomads, mostly. But they were artists also: Tristan remembered admiring the intricate gold smiths' works and the artists who crafted silver bracelets where deer and horses were entwined in a refined pattern that only grew more and more intricate, the longer you looked at it. They sung and danced to celebrate their goddesses. And when they had to fight, they fought fiercely. Tristan had always particularly admired the beauty of their women warriors, although they had become less in numbers as Roman cultural influence increased over his people. Sarmatians knew how to hunt and how to fight. He wondered whatever possessed the Romans to call them "barbarians". The more he understood that Romans were part of a sophisticated society, the more increased his ire at being called "barbaric". It would have been better to be called "barbaric" by the scalp-wielding Scythians, he thought.

Then at least the insult would have carried no weight.

* * *

Silvanus bade them to be quiet then and Tristan revelled in the silence. The road continued unobstructed for a good hour or so, then Silvanus had them stop with a closed fist.

"See the animal traces in the snow?"

The road was slowly coming down from the high mountain pass. They found themselves on a kind of high-altitude plateau, in the midst of a grassy clearing covered with a fine sheet of snow. The road led across the clearing and then into dark firs, which told Tristan that they were on their way down the mountain. He had learned that there was something called a "timber line", which meant that above that altitude, no trees would grow. In higher altitudes, only bushes or shrubs would grow, and if you went even higher, then there was nothing save the bare rock in an area so hostile to life, that anyone crossing over the Alps there was worthy of nothing but the highest respect.

There were about four different animal traces in the snowy clearing.

"A fox, two deer and -" Parzifal broke off and Tristan and him both stared at the fourth animal's tracks.

"You don't have them in Sarmatia," Silvanus said helpfully. "It's a chamois, a kind of goat, only found in the mountains areas of Germania, Norricum and the mountains areas of Italia, as well as Gallia. These animals can climb all steep slopes that there are. When you are a scout, you have to be able to climb just like them."

Tristan and Parzifal both looked at him quite comically.

"And we start learning how to climb - right now?" Parzifal, ever outspoken, asked.

"No." Silvanus laughed. "Now we hunt our dinner."

Tristan understood and he smiled. "The deers' tracks are still fresh."

"How do you know?" Parzifal gazed at him in betrayed silence, but Silvanus was appreciative. "The tracks," Tristan said.

"They are still fresh because the edges remain firm. Plus, it snowed during the last hour and still no new snow covers the tracks. They have been here only a good ten minutes ago."

"I agree," Silvanus nodded. "A good dinner should uplift troop morale."

Tristan looked at him. "Is that the scout's task as well? Looking for food?"

The unknown second soldier, who had been silent so far and had only taken to look at them with his disquieting flat stare, now interjected: "Being a scout means you have to look out for anything that will uplift the troop's morale."

Silvanus grinned. "Yes, and sometimes that does mean that finding food is on top of the list." He winked. "Actually, we quite enjoy that part."

"I can imagine," Parzifal mumbled and even Tristan couldn't stifle a small smile.

As they went to look for the deer, a strange thought crossed Tristan's mind: There had been no thought of home in his mind for the entire day.

Somehow, that thought struck him as odd.

* * *

 _Thank you for the_ _wonderful_ _rewiews you left me,_ _ **Josje**_ _and_ _ **FFAMasquerade2005**_ _:)_ _I know it's taking me ages to go on, but I will try to go on. Life is just not getting easier, but I won't make any excuses. However, I am sorry, that it is such a slow-paced story._

 _I hope you do like this chapter though!_

 _There was a festival in Rome called_ _ **Mundus patet.**_ _Romans celebrated the dead by opening a ceremonial stone in Rome called the_ _ **Mundus**_ _, believed to be the entrance to the underworld, and offering the fruits of the harvest to the dead. Also, when someone died, it was customary to place a coin in their mouth in order called_ _ **Charon's obol,**_ _so they would be able to pay the ferryman_ _ **Charon**_ _, who ferried the souls to the god of death,_ _ **Hades**_ _, or_ _ **Pluto**_ **,** _as he was known in Roman society._

 _The Scythians were a nomadic people who lived around the same time as the Sarmatians in the steppes. They were assimilated by the Sarmatians in the 3_ _rd_ _or 4_ _th_ _century AD._


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